


Love is a Sticky Thing

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(At the suggestion of AtlinMerrick after an exchange in the comments section for her fic, "The Day They Met")</p>
<p>Sherlock is trying to be a good partner.  Boyfriend.  Whatever.  But love is sticky.  Literally sticky.  And a bit itchy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is a Sticky Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> For AtlinMerrick--she's an enabler of fic! 
> 
> This is just a short little fic and probably OOC--pure fluff.

 One year, four days, and six hours (and some-odd minutes—Sherlock couldn't be bothered with those, not in this case, mainly because the woman behind the counter was making his skin crawl with her gum popping and overly floral perfume and dear <i>God</i> who told her that shade of red was acceptable for human hair?) since John had moved back. One year, two days, and three hours since The Kiss (and it did deserve capitals). “And one day and one hour since I forgot that John considered yesterday our anniversary,” he muttered, poking at the fat, white rosebuds desultorily. “Do you have anything that doesn't resemble larvae, by any chance?”

The woman stopped popping her gum. “Larvae?”

“Mmm. These roses look like a very specific sort of fly larvae, all boated and white like that. Do you have anything, I don't know...” Sherlock trailed off and did a slow turn, gaze raking the displays in the tiny flower shop. “Anything that isn't chemically enhanced and possibly toxic should someone get petals in his mouth? For science...”

***

Sherlock glared at the array of chocolates on the kitchen bench. Telling shop clerks that his partner was a man of simple tastes had brought forth everything from a rather mangy box of waxy, nougat-filled mystery shapes to a flat, bronze-colored box longer than Sherlock's arm, filled with hand-decorated wafers made to look like bits of Impressionist paintings and, he had been assured, containing only the finest non-GMO, fair trade cocoa beans harvested by weeping virgins whilst riding unicorns (to be honest, Sherlock was almost positive he made that last part up himself but he was past caring by that point in the day). John would be home in four hours and Sherlock still had not decided which box would go with the roses (which would not be missed from Mrs. Johansen's grave in the least... he was fairly certain, anyway. The damned things had been a literal pain to procure, leaving his gloves and fingers full of holes and a plethora of ant bites on his ankles and a spider bite on his neck. If he didn't know better, he would say Mrs. Johansen objected to her pefect-for-John floral arrangement being removed. But Sherlock knew better. Mostly. Just in case, the flowers were in the other room, far away from his very pokable skin.).

The waxy little abominations were right out, as were the assortments procured at Waitrose and Iceland. He had a suspicion that the heart shaped box left from Valentine's day would be a bad idea, as well, considering it was well into September. Sherlock made a face as he sampled the high-end, painted chocolate in the bronze box. “Ugh. Why does more money mean less sugar?” He manfully chewed the piece down and swallowed. It had been a bit of Renoir's _The Swing_  and, in Sherlock's opinion, had tasted just as good as an actual swing might. He poked at a piece of _Bar at the Folies-Bergere_ and paused when one of the other pieces caught his eye. _Young Spartans Exercising_  by Degas, Sherlock thought, would be the perfect thing to give one's homosexual lover. A bit trite, a bit stereotypical, but John liked that sort of gesture, didn't he? He certainly seemed to with his female lovers, reading poetry to them and bestowing them fluttery nicknames and praising the beauty of their eyes... Surely a vaguely homoerotic piece of chocolate was in the same arena as those sentimental gestures.

Shoving the rest of the candy into a bin bag then hastily hiding it in his room (one never knew when one might need large amounts of chocolate of varying quality), Sherlock flopped himself onto the sofa with the remaining Impressionist chocolates, the special John one set beside the evil roses, and decided to see if the flavor differed based upon the paintings represented. It had been two days since his last proper meal and if he expected to give John some rather enthusiastic sex in the evening, he needed some energy. Scratching at the bite on his neck, Sherlock toed off his socks and breathed a sigh of relief as he dug the toes of his left foot into the bites on his right ankle. A furious itch later, he moaned in relief around a mouthful of misty ballerina as his right foot scritched at his left ankle. The bite on his neck wasn't itching, thankfully, but Sherlock did wonder a bit about the stiffness spreading along his jawline. He slid further down in the sofa and closed his eyes, shoving his feet under the cushions to let the fabric of the cushions take over for his toes in the itching department. Whenever John got home, he would ask for a bit of medical advice.

 After the sex, of course.

***

John staggered into the sitting room shortly after six, arms laden with briefcase, shopping, mail and, in response to ten texts from Sherlock, a clinic-sized bottle of calamine lotion. “No, I don't need any help, thanks. I've got it!”

“Sarcasm,” came the muffled reply from the sofa, “is a poor substitute for wit.”

“Fuck off,” he muttered, dropping the mail haphazardly onto the occasional table and letting the calamine lotion fall from his loose grip and onto Sherlock's chair. “Been busy, have you?” John felt his snark start to sink beneath a layer of concern even as the words left his mouth. Sherlock's hands, hanging over the arm of the sofa as Sherlock lay face-down, were red and spotted with welts, some oozing blood and plasma. His feet were swollen, mottled pink, and idly rubbing against the other arm of the sofa. “Sherlock, what the hell is going on? Look at me!”

Sherlock groaned but rolled his head to one side. He opened his one good eye (the other refused to work, much to his annoyance) and peered at John. “I missed our anniversary. I'm a shite homosexual lover.”

John huffed a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “So...you decided to punish yourself by, what, bathing in allergens? Oh, my God! Your face! Sit up!” He dropped his briefcase and the shopping, lurching forward to grab Sherlock by his upper arms and drag him into a sitting position. “Oh, God,” he muttered. “What did you get into?”

“I forgot our anniversary,” Sherlock mumbled, voice thick. “So I got you some roses,” he raised his prickled hands, “but Mrs. Johansen apparently sicced her spider from beyond the grave at me,” he tilted his head to display the spider bite which had swollen to the size of a small orange and was angry purple with pus already forming. “And her ant minions as well,” he added, wiggling his toes.

“Sherlock, you're not making sense...”

“But the chocolate made me feel a bit better,” Sherlock continued, still sounding muffled and drowsy. “But I think the decorations might contain something I'm allergic to. My tongue feels very unlike itself.”

“Because it's swollen, you knob,” John sighed. “Sherlock, we need to go to the hospital and get that bite looked at, and you may need something for the allergic reaction in your mouth.”

“Wait! The oral sex!” Sherlock shoved John back and slid to his knees at the same time. “It's traditional, isn't it? Anniversary sex? This can be anniversary sex and make up sex in the same go!”

John batted at Sherlock's hands as his thick, oozing fingers plucked at John's flies. “Oi! Just... no! Wait! Sherlock! For fuck's sake, I forgot it, too! Don't... wait! Stop!” He managed to get a grip on Sherlock's wrists and forced him to sit back on his heels. “Later, you're going to tell me about your day. Right now, you're going to the hospital.”

“But...” Sherlock trailed off. He didn't feel well at all, and it was a sign of just how unwell he felt that he wasn't fighting a trip to the hospital. “Okay,” he sighed. “This is your anniversary present, though.”

John chuckled softly. “Right. I'll remember that for next time. You know,” he added, helping Sherlock to his feet, “you didn't have to do all of this.”

“I know, but I did think it'd be rather nice,” he admitted. John got him to the door and was juggling him into his great coat when Sherlock's gaze fell on the wilting roses. “I blame Mrs. Johansen for this.”

“Who is Mrs. Johansen?”

“The lady I got the flowers from,” Sherlock mumbled, lurching into the corridor and heading unsteadily for the stairs.

“Oh, they really are lovely, Sherlock,” he said, grabbing for Sherlock's coat before the great git could go ass over tea kettle down the stairs.

“We're passing by the cemetery on the way to the hospital. You can tell her that. I'm sure her little buggy minions would love to hear it.”

John stopped at the foot of the stairs and stared at Sherlock's crooked smile and swollen face. “You know... I think my anniversary present to you is going to be pretending I don't have any idea what you're talking about and pretending I didn't just figure out where the roses came from.”

Sherlock sighed. “That's why we work so well together,” he announced, shoving himself out the door and onto the pavement. “We're willing to overlook a bit of light theft.”

John shook his head and hailed a taxi. “Get in, you twat.”

“I do love you, you know.”

John paused, midway into shoving Sherlock into the back seat of the cab. “I...you do?”

“Mmm. I even found a piece of homoerotic chocolate to prove it.”

John laughed, unable to stop himself. “Right. I love you too, you massive, wonderful, fuckhead. St. Bart's, please,” he added to the driver. “Quickly, before he decides to steal me an entire body.”

  
  



End file.
